“What claim have you to it?” Laverick asked quickly.
“I might retort, but I will not,” Bellamy replied. “Time is too short. I will answer you by explaining who the man was and what that document consists of. The man’s name was Von Behrling, and he was a trusted agent of the Austrian Secret Service. The document of which he was robbed contains a verbatim report of the conference which recently took place at Vienna between the Emperor of Germany, the Emperor of Austria, and the Czar of Russia. It contains the details of a plot against this country and the undertakings entered into by those several Powers. I want that document, Laverick. Have I established my claim?”
“You have,” Laverick answered. “Why on earth Didn’t you come to me before? Don’t you believe that I should have listened to you as readily as to Mademoiselle Idiale?”
“I wish that I had come,” Bellamy admitted, “and yet, here is the truth, Laverick, because the truth is best. Twenty-two years lie between us and the time when we knew anything of one another. To me, therefore, you are a stranger. I had my spies following Von Behrling that night. I know that you took the pocket-book from his dead body. If you did not murder him yourself, the deed was done by an accomplice of yours. How was I to trust you? We are speaking naked words, my friend. We are dealing with naked truths. To me you were a murderer and a thief. A word from me and you would have realized the value of that document. I tell you frankly that Austria would give you almost any sum for it to-day.”
Laverick, strong man though he was, was conscious of a sudden weakness. He raised his hand to his forehead and drew it away—wet. He struggled desperately for self-control.
“Bellamy,” he said, “here’s truth for truth. I am not on my trial before you. Believe me, man, for God’s sake!”
“I’ll try,” Bellamy promised. “Go on.”
“That night I stayed at my office late because I saw ruin before me on the morrow. I left it meaning to go straight home. I lit a cigarette near that entry, and by the light of a match, as I was throwing it away, I saw the murdered man. I think for a time I was paralyzed. The pocket-book was half dragged out from his pocket. Why I looked inside it I don’t know. I had some sort of wild idea that I must find out who he was. Mind you, though, I should have given the alarm at once, but there wasn’t a soul in the street. There was a man lurking in the entry and I chased him, unsuccessfully. When I came back, the body was still there and the street empty. I looked inside that pocket-book, which would have been in the possession of his murderer but for my unexpected appearance. I saw the notes there. Once more I went out into the street. I gave no alarm,—I am not attempting to explain why. I was like a man made suddenly mad. I went back to my office and shut myself in.”
Bellamy pointed to the glasses silently. The waiter came forward and refilled them.
“Bellamy,” Laverick continued, “your career and mine lie far apart, and yet, at their backbone, as there is at the backbone of every man’s life, there must be something of the same sort of ambition. My grandfather lived and died a member of the Stock Exchange, honored and well thought of. My father followed in his footsteps. I, too, was there. Without becoming wealthy, the name I bear has become known and respected. Failure, whatever one may say, means a broken life and a broken honor. I sat in my office and I knew that the use of those notes for a few days might save me from disgrace, might keep the name, which my father and grandfather had guarded so jealously, free from shame. I would have paid any price for the use of them. I would have paid with my life, if that had been possible. Think of the risk I ran—the danger I am now in. I deposited those notes on the morrow as security at my bank, and I met all my engagements. The crisis is over! Those notes are in a safe deposit vault in Chancery Lane! I only wish to Heaven that I could find the owner!”